


Rave Lights and City Nights

by testyCurmudgeon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Tags Subject to Change, b/c boys are idiots who don't know how to conduct FEELINGS, i'm not sure if i'm continuing this yet but some peeps on the meme are liking it so/???, if i can figure out where i want to take it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:23:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testyCurmudgeon/pseuds/testyCurmudgeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire the Cynic VS OC the pick-up artist, or: I really liked a kink meme prompt. (This doesn't actually contain anything that is deserving of being called a "kink prompt", sorry.)</p><p>Wherein Grantaire is being hit on and reacts in the way I elect to in all such future encounters (not that there will be any, because I never go out to clubs or bars, or leave my room actually) and I am incapable of coming up with clever or witty titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rave Lights and City Nights

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt, if you are interested:  
> http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13289.html?thread=8764393#t8764393
> 
> I'm hoping to continue this at some point, but, given my track record, that is highly unlikely.

It's a weekday night, but spring break, so the ten of them are out for a night on the town. _It's a miracle_ , Grantaire thinks, _that Enjolras decided to tag along_ (even if he's only drinking from the water bottle he brought with him, and eyeing it like a hawk would its prey.)

 

Watching Enjolras try to dance is a humanizing experience, albeit an awkward one. He moves with stiff limbs, and the music hits him like it would a brick wall ( _a very beautiful brick wall_ , Grantaire thinks). And Grantaire could run up and teach him how it's done, he moves like liquid and lets the noise resonate through him; he's a better dancer than his friends by a long shot – he's spent a couple summers teaching kids at the community center to breakdance. But tonight he can't bring himself to get off the stool by the bar where he sits guzzling down drinks. Instead he contents himself with letting his friends take center-stage, and they happily commandeer the dance floor in a mosh while he idly taps out the beat against the glass of his bottle. He wonders – sitting there, watching spectroscopic colors mix like paints on usually golden curls – how many of them have actually seen him dance; Bahorel and Courfeyrac, certainly, and probably Jehan (he remembers the poet stopping by the community center a few times). Eponine too, but she isn't here tonight (Musichetta had invited 'Ponine and her sister and Cosette, along with a few other friends over, declaring a Girl's-Night-In, leaving Joly and Bossuet to call for their own Boy's-Night-Out). Aside from them, Grantaire supposes, none have seen him dance, which isn't altogether strange – these days he rarely gets out on the dance floor unless he is completely and utterly shit-faced; few of the Amis have ever seen him that far gone.

 

Courfeyrac tries to get him out there, calling, "Come on, R, show these stupid fucks what you've got!" Grantaire smiles but shakes his head in refusal; he knows Enjolras looks down on him for drinking and playing devil's advocate, so, since it's clear the man doesn't dance either, Grantaire isn't sure he wants to know what his Apollo would think of him for that (he doesn't want to hear that it's another useless talent like art).

 

What Grantaire doesn't understand, though, is why it's _only him_ ; all their other friends drink, even Marius, on occasion, so why does Enjolras have to treat _him_ like a worthless shithole for it? _Probably because you **are** a worthless shithole _, his brain kindly supplies, and the thought sends him into a foul mood.__

 

He is sitting there moping at a row of teeth that shines purple under black light and a pair of light brown eyes (that contorted a bit in disapproval when they fell on Grantaire), when he is shocked from his reverie by the speakers blasting the Scissor Sisters' I Don't Feel Like Dancin'. And it is just too fitting to be a coincidence that he barks a laugh and turns to look for Courf to let him know that pulling strings with the DJ isn't going to be winning him any brownie points and that he _is not_ getting out of his seat even if they try to _drag him from it_ , when he's interrupted by the low voice (definitely male) purring to his right: "Is this seat taken?"

 

Grantaire's head shoots in the direction the too-close voice is coming from and when he sees him, the man is already hopping up on the barstool, not bothering to wait for an answer.

 

One glance to take in the bright red dress shirt (a generous number of buttons left undone), a white sportscoat with tight slacks and a fedora to match, a ridiculous gold chain, stud through his left ear, rings scattered across this fingers, and just like that, Grantaire knows he's dealing with a wannabe pick-up artist. _The dead giveaway, though_ , Grantaire thinks, _is the neatly-trimmed goatee topping it all off_ (Grantaire has personally never been fond of them, but it's a good look on this guy).

 

He becomes aware that Pick-up Wannabe is about to speak when his face slides into a lazy grin, “I came over here intending to cheer you up but it seems my services are no longer required. What's got you laughing?”

 

Grantaire shoots him a grin of his own and replies, “Sorry, that's privileged information.” He finishes with what he hopes comes across as an apologetic smile.

 

But Pick-up Wannabe isn't deterred, “You a Scissor Sister then?”

 

 _Now that's interesting phrasing_ , Grantaire thinks, and he's never been one to pass up an opportunity like this so. “Well, last I checked I didn't have a clit, so.” Now Wannabe looks a bit surprised, or maybe embarrassed, as if he didn't mean for it to come out that way, and Grantaire chuckles. And Wannabe isn't about to give up so easily, because that makes him sit up and compose himself, jumping back into an easy conversational tone with renewed vigor, “You clearly aren't as drunk as I thought you were.”

 

And that makes Grantaire outright laugh (and he laughs hard, enough that Wannabe _literally_ jumps a little, and the fedora sitting atop his head teeters precariously when he does). “On the contrary,” Grantaire drawls in response, “I'm probably _more_ drunk than you thought, I just happen to be a very eloquent drunk.”

 

The guy smiles again, but this time it's an ever-so-slightly amazed smile and it reaches his eyes (Grantaire can't help but think that they're nice eyes, and that maybe the alcohol is affecting him more than he cares to admit). “You've been downing drinks like a madman, I'm surprised you haven't passed out yet,” he breaks off in a low chuckle, “If you can keep up a conversation like that as far gone as you are, you've got to be the most interesting person here.”

 

Grantaire may appreciate the attention, being as ignored as he is in their circle of friends, but he isn't about to give him that easy-in, so he fires back, “Exaggerated claim; _first_ , have a meaningful conversation with everyone in this club, _then_ come back and give considerable evidence to convince me of that.”

 

He'd surprised Fedora before, but this completely catches him off-guard – still, he recovers, feigns a quick sweep across the room, turns back to Grantaire and responds, “I can at least say you're the most attractive.”

 

Grantaire manages a brief (very much _un_ attractive) snort. “You've clearly missed Apollo on the dance floor,” he remarks dismissively, hoping that Fedora will drop it, hoping that he doesn't sound too bitter.

 

But the guy doesn't take the bait, and keeps those nice eyes trained on Grantaire (and Grantaire can't help but agree with Virginia Woolf, _after 25 years it is an enormous pleasure, being wanted_ ). Grantaire swallows past the lump that has apparated in his throat with that thought and it might be because of that, that Grantaire responds the way he does when the guy asks, “If you're not interested, why haven't you stopped talking to me yet?”

 

“I never said I was averse to going home with you, but that doesn't mean I don't intend to make you work for it.”

 

That gives the guy pause.

 

“Let me buy you dinner.”

 

And that gives Grantaire pause.

 

“You want to buy me dinner,” Grantaire echoes. The guy nods. “Explain your reasoning.”

The guy smiles slightly, but answers. “I don't think,” he begins, runs his tongue over the top row of his teeth ( _also nice, very white_ , Grantaire notes) as if he's unconsciously tasting his words before he continues, “that I was wrong before; no, I don't know everyone here, but I'm in this club about twice a week, and if I'm not, then I'm likely in another one. I've been at this for a few years now, and trust me, no one's ever put up a fight like _that_ before.” Grantaire opens his mouth to say something, but the guy doesn't give him a chance to respond, “And this only really works when I give the other person a reason to be interested and then brush them off,” and Grantaire has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from saying stupid at the emotions _that_ train of thought brings up, “But I haven't been able to pay attention to anyone since I started talking to you and _no one's_ been able to hold my attention like this before. Let me buy you dinner.”

 

Something inside him is feeling more and more brittle and weak by the second, but his always-adversity-seeking mouth moves on instinct and before he knows it he's saying, “And miss out on the chance to be the one that got away? _Never_.”

 

“You don't have to come home with me if you don't want to; I just want to meet the man behind the alcohol and debate-flirting,” (and Grantaire has to keep from laughing just from how bizarrely _accurate_ that description is – even if he doesn't believe anyone would want to meet the _man_ ). “And,” this time the guy licks his upper-lip and leans in a little, “if we're being completely honest, I think you were flirting with me just as much as I was with you.” He's not wrong, it's not often that someone puts in such an effort just to _speak_ to Grantaire, and he appreciates the undertaking. “Come on,” the guy urges, “you choose the place.”

 

Grantaire turns back to the dance floor to find a familiar form chiseled and cut and stuck in a red polo, with curls now weighed down by sweat, glistening and dripping with unnatural colors that don't resemble paint all that much anymore ( _but he's got some semblance of rhythm going on now_ , Grantaire notes), and he realizes that during this conversation his mind had turned to Enjolras only a fraction of how often it usually does and, moreover, he's _enjoyed himself_.

 

With that, he takes his beer and in one swig resolutely downs what's left in the bottle before turning back to the guy. “You know what?” Fedora raises an eyebrow in inquiry, “Why the fuck not?” The guy smiles back at him, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, as if he's seen something he shouldn't have ( _and maybe he has_ , Grantaire thinks, glancing back at Enjolras one more time).

 

He whips out his phone and sends Courfeyrac a quick message saying ' _dont wait up_ ', because all their friends congregate around Courf and he'll get the message around.

 

When he turns back to look at Fedora again he tries to ignore that the guy doesn't look like he's won something (and he tries not to dwell on the thought that pops in unbidden, _and what had that little bout been, besides a contest?_ ).

 

He leads the guy down to a small Ukrainian restaurant that's open 24 hours only because it also serves as the lobby for a tattoo parlor that gets its best patronage from drunks doing things they'll regret. They sit at a table outside eating pelmeny with sour cream spiced with black pepper and curry powder and drizzled with Sriracha. They formally introduce themselves and the guy, Ted, spends the evening intent on cheering him up.

(It says something about his success that at three in the morning, they're still there, and Grantaire is laughing that obnoxious goose-honk laugh of his that he's always been embarrassed of so hard that his ribcage hurts and he _doesn't even care_. He's concentrating so hard on catching his breath that he doesn't notice that his peals of laughter have drawn the attention of his friends, across the street, a couple buildings down, where they'd just vacated the club. Courfeyrac lets them know it's all good, and Enjolras, with an ever-so-slightly panicked expression that no one will remember the next morning, asks, “Shouldn't we at least say something to him?”

 

“Nah, he'll be fine,” Courfeyrac yawns. Enjolras stares back where Grantaire and a stranger sit and his lips flat-line. Combeferre won't recall it in the morning, but he wonders if maybe his heart did too.)

 

Grantaire makes it back to the apartment he shares with Eponine at a quarter to four, she isn't back yet. _It was a good day_ , he thinks, crawling into bed. And it's nice, he supposes, not having to crawl back home drunk off his ass because his sense of self-esteem is crippling. It was a good day, and he falls asleep with a smile on his face and a new contact in his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> pst, if you saw any typos i missed, pls let me know, ok thank friends.


End file.
